


you're the ocean

by necro



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11895297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necro/pseuds/necro
Summary: on december 16, 1986, guns n' roses release an ep to stay relevant in the music scene while they work on their debut album. in the months prior to the release, axl and slash maneuver through newfound developments in their relationship while trying to cope with the unexpected reality of the business side of the music industry.





	you're the ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's alive...and it wrote like, nearly 13k for the first god damn chapter. whoops?
> 
> i know that what i've written isn't true to gnr history, i've definitely taken some creative liberties here. i'd say this is more... domestic, and drastically tame, compared to the actual events that happened in '86. oh well. hopefully you can look past my endless inaccuracies and take this for what it is?
> 
> also, let me know if you prefer this kind of format of fanfic, without the spaces between the paragraphs!

The middle of August in California was warm enough, the summer season had hit its peak and was slowly declining into a more tolerable kind of weather. Clouds had become less sporadic, frequently shielding the sun and giving emphasis to the cool breeze as it navigated through the mean streets of Los Angeles, filling in the jagged fissures of the city. Before he moved out to the West Coast, miles and miles away from Indiana, August inspired mixed feelings in Axl.

Those feelings weren’t worth dissecting so early in the morning.

Axl woke on this thought. He assumed that the dream, which was already fading from the forefront of his mind, had something to do with the speared echo of placebo-like nostalgia wedged between his ribs. It felt like a tender bruise on a vulnerable place somewhere deep inside of him, he frowned before opening his eyes.

The already grimy sheets underneath him were damp with sweat, the tattered blanket he bought at a thrift store in a heap on the floor. Steven had wanted to open all the windows last night, claiming the small house was too stuffy and smelly with five grown men and their distinct, assorted scents mixing in with the dirty carpet of the living room and the unidentifiable stains on the walls.

Axl argued that while this house was moderately bigger and severely cleaner than their previous house, that didn’t mean the neighborhood was any better. So, the windows stayed shut. But without the blanket, Axl discovered that the tiny room, which was capable of handling the twin sized mattress and not much else, was hardly sweltering at all. If anything, he was expectedly warm.

The past couple of weeks had been about the same way: routine, vapid and draining like working a white-collar desk job for some blank-faced corporation. Wake up, clock in, clock out, pass out. It wasn’t too humid inside, although there was an undiscernible layer of stale air that gathered in the bedroom with the door locked shut and the windows closed tight. The sun had already rose and was peeking over the rooftops of the homes across the street, revealing sunlight that swept over Axl’s face; the sudden brightness had woken him up.

His frown deepened, tired eyes drooping into a leer as he stared at the makeshift window drape that Duff, and whoever the fuck he brought back with him a week ago, had somehow tore in half.

Axl bought the shower curtain at a garage sale. He flirted with the aging woman with frown lines and a perpetual glower on her face to try and convince her to lower the price. It wasn’t easy, maybe she looked better fifteen years ago, but she eventually relented and sold it to him for three bucks. When he got back to the house, fixing the flower-printed curtain to the top of the window with lightly rusted nails and a sticky hammer he found somewhere, he figured she sold it to him mostly out of exasperation rather than Axl’s attempts at seducing her.

Directly across the bedroom was a pretty big broom closet which held the band’s newly acquired equipment and kept them out of reach from drunken mishaps. On the same wall as the bedroom was the bathroom. The cramped hallway stopped short and broke off to the open area that belonged to the kitchen, where the laminate flooring was discolored in many places, and the living room.

The kitchen lacked a fridge and a stove, only containing a clutter of cupboards with some cabinet doors hanging desperately onto their hinges, and Duff complained about whether it was really a kitchen at all. The bathroom had functional plumbing and a tiled floor that had been decently maintained by the previous owners, and that’s all Axl asked for.

After the band signed with Geffen, the exec that scouted them, Tom Zutaunt, gave Axl the seventy-five thousand dollars he boldly requested of him over the phone. Axl had let some of the incredulous awe slip into his expression, he marveled at the check between his fingers. At that moment, that was the largest amount of money he ever had in his hands.

The next thing he knew, they were assigned to studio work. Some other Geffen execs directed them to a few studios to record their first album. Axl surprised himself by working against the apprehension that skulked in his conscience, brushing off the unease despite the warning bells going off inside of him. The deal was secure, _Guns N’ Roses_ was a signed band on a record label, but not without a misunderstanding that blew up in his face. Maybe his pride felt a little sore, so, in the beginning, he kept his opinions to himself while they attempted to make their album.

Sound City was over an hour’s drive from the house, if traffic was nonexistent, and on the rare occasion that the five of them arrived at the studio together they actually got some work done. Somebody at Geffen contacted Manny Charlton and got him over there, and they put together a few demos in early June. While Axl was amazed at what they could accomplish with him, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t working with the setup.

After Charlton excused himself to go back to working on Nazareth projects, they met up with Spencer Proffer, who talked about two of his own studios in Hollywood, which were much closer to home than the studio in Van Nuys. With no need for further discussion, they hauled their equipment back into their borrowed car and drove off toward Pasha Records. The distance worked for them, with less money spent on gas, and the studios were more easily accessible to whoever missed the drive there.

Axl knew, sooner or later, he couldn’t ignore his instinct that had grown from a dulled gut feeling into an uproarious infection that spread over his body like a poison. He didn’t want to admit it, but the truth was obvious to him that they had wasted nearly two months with barely any work to show for it. They needed more time to work on the songs.

He wasn’t against the generous amount of alcohol consumed before, during, or after the day was done, but when the guys showed up, which was a rare occurrence in of itself, they were preoccupied with their bad habits. Duff botched his recording takes by skipping sections and making up basslines that didn’t work for the song they were recording at the time. Izzy and Slash were communicating only with their guitars and traded messy riffs back and forth, neither relenting and trying to one-up each other like it was a game. Steven was, on a good day, completely incorrigible.

On top of the fucked-up cake that was the setting stone for the first album the band made together, Axl wasn’t satisfied with the lyrics and how he delivered them.

Tom, who was aware of the problems from his time sitting in the control rooms at the studios, surveying the situation carefully and quietly, had concluded the problem was that they had no permanent, experienced manager who could handle the reins with relative ease. After pulling some strings, and a handful of unsuccessful interviews with potential managers, Tom introduced them to Alan Niven.

Niven was an all right guy, as far as managers went. Izzy and Slash first met him at some bar, and Axl initially trusted their judgement. He even showed up to Pasha a little later, and didn’t try to dictate what should be changed or how to “improve” their sound. It was from that point on that Axl personally accepted him as the band’s official manager.

While he sat in on some sessions in the studio, Alan was filled in on the circumstances and, with Geffen’s approval, instructed that the first order of business for the band under his care was to put out an EP of songs they already knew how to play.

“With you guys on Geffen, _Guns N’ Roses_ has the potential to redefine the standard of rock n’ roll and make history.” Alan praised commendably during a meeting. “But while you’re cooped up in those studios, bullshittin’ and wastin’ time, the people out there,” he pointed out the window, “are forgettin’ about you. They don’t wanna hear that your album will be out _maybe next year_ , they want to hold your album _tomorrow_.

“With an EP, you’re giving your crowd a little taste of what’s to come.” The fixed line of Alan’s mouth shaped itself into a simple grin as he folded his hands on the long business table in front of him. He leaned back and adjusted his cowboy hat, crossed his arms. His tone was one that resonated with finality. “Once you have your songs, I’ll get you more time a studio, and we’ll keep the talk of you boys alive while you work on the real shit.”

Izzy huddled the guys together after the meeting, which took place at the Geffen studio in Santa Monica, and they decided to make the EP two original songs and two covers. When Alan walked out of the board room, they approached at once and gave him the tracklist for their EP.

Alan’s face broke into a wide, genuine smile.

The EP would be released under what was referred to in the meeting that followed as a _vanity label_ , which meant that the record wouldn’t have Geffen’s brand on it, but it would be overseen by the company when it was finished. Axl didn’t get why they’d need to create a fake record label, but he settled on seeing what would happen if they followed under Alan’s guidance. Still, Axl had felt inexplicably grown up as he sat there, curious as to how the label would handle their music, taking responsibility for the band like it was second nature to.

With the money from Tom, Axl paid the down payment on the house and kept some money aside to pay the inevitable bills that would follow suit. He also kept a portion of the sum to pay for the production on the EP. After he made sure that the business side of things were secure, he split the rest of the money five ways and gave the guys their share, and didn’t look back when they all ran off in different directions toward the endless night of L.A.

Axl didn’t really give a fuck about what they did with their share of the money, but he was privately relieved when he saw Izzy, Slash, and Duff clamber into the house with amps and guitars some days later. He chided himself for doubting their commitment to the band after what they’ve been through. He didn’t ask what they did with the rest of their money.

Usually just Axl and Slash lived in the house, they took turns with who slept in the bed and who slept in the empty space that Steven had lovingly named their multi-purpose living room. The concept of furniture came to them after their savings had dwindled and the consequences of their impulsive spending was blatantly clear. The rest of the guys stayed with their girlfriends, or latest hookups, but shit was prone to happening and neither Axl or Slash were going to stand for any of their friends sleeping out on the street.

When they could, they helped pay the bills for the house. Izzy didn’t share much of what his day job entailed, but he wasn’t exactly subtle about his dealing, either. With Slash and Duff able to hold steady jobs while on the hunt for secondary ones, since Axl and Steven applied whenever they felt like it and usually had no luck making it past the job interview, they managed.

That was the mantra that kept Axl from flying off the handle, _we’re managing, we can make it._

Axl crawled out of bed and stretched as he stood. Out in the hallway, he noticed how stifled the house really was. He could hear Steven’s wasted slur from last night warning him about it in the back of his mind. In the living room, Duff and Steven were nestled on the floor in the furthest corner of the room, hiding in the shadows created by the sunlight from the kitchen window. Slash was asleep, facing the wall, but was roused out of it when Izzy knocked his shoulder with his foot as he saw Axl approaching.

Axl made a face at the sight of them. He didn’t know the time, but he felt a pull under his skin that made him antsy to leave.

“When are we supposed to be at Pasha?” He asked, his voice deep and scratchy from sleep.

“Nine somethin’,” Izzy replied. Slash lifted himself off the floor and sat beside him, legs crossed limply at his ankles.

Axl threw a warning glance at Duff and Steven, who were still asleep. “What time is it now?”

“Past eight.”

His previously forgotten frown returned, a touch of impatience tinting his face into a scowl. Slash yawned noisily and stretched his arms over his head, sighing with satisfaction when his joints popped. Axl walked over to wake the two sleeping on the floor, kneeling to shake the closest body awake.

It was Steven’s. His arms quickly raised to push Axl away but he accidentally slapped Duff awake in the process. Duff groaned pitifully while Steven pawed tiredly at his face with his hands.

“Get up, we gotta go.” Axl heard someone get up behind him and walk into the bathroom.

“Fuck off,” Steven whined. Axl narrowed his eyes down at him as he curled into the fetal position.

Before he could say anything else, Duff’s own broken voice came from behind his matted blond hair. “Go, we’ll catch up later.”

Steven croaked a noise of vague agreement and threw his leg over him. Duff made a strangled yelp but was apparently too tired to do anything about it since he twitched a little, and then stilled. They were hungover from a celebration of sorts from last night, they all were, but whatever else Duff and Steven took must have still had a hold on them.

Axl grimaced, then sighed in frustration. Arguing with them was a waste of time, and if he wanted to get to the studio _on_ time they had to leave as soon as possible.

Under the worn welcome mat that rested beneath their front door was the only key to the house. A few days after they officially moved in, Izzy came by and held up the mat for them to see and called it a housewarming gift. Slash laughed while Axl shook his head and pretended he wasn’t smiling. It used to say something stupid, like _leave clothes off at door_ , but after so many shoes had walked over it, the words faded and were practically nonexistent.

Axl wasn’t sure if he could trust Steven to lock up before they left for the studio, if they bothered to show up at all. He knew Duff was more reliable when it came to that kind of thing, but when he was left alone with Steven, excessive self-indulgence took on a whole new meaning with the two of them.

Passing the bathroom door, Axl heard the toilet’s unsuccessful attempt at flushing. There was a tense pause, followed by a halted click, then Slash’s muffled cursing. Axl shut the bedroom door behind him and decided to let somebody else handle it.

The Pasha Music House took a little over half an hour to get to, if traffic should be kind to them today. With Axl’s luck so far, though, anything was bound to happen. It took a few minutes for him to get dressed, picking up a handful of clothes and wearing what looked the least disheveled.

He walked out of the room and stepped into the closet, taking out a weathered hardcover binder. He flipped through the pages until he found the lyrics he was looking for. They wrote lyrics on any and every removable surface, but Axl grew tired of keeping fragile receipt paper and flimsy plastic bags around the house, so he wrote down all the lyrics they arranged into songs with some notes and his own edits to the lyrics in the binder as well, separated by a ton of empty pages. He walked down the hallway with the selection of lyrics folded in his pockets and gathered his composure to ask Slash what he did to the bathroom.

Izzy was putting on his shoes at the door, Slash had changed into some cleaner shorts and determined that was enough, a pair of shades rested proudly on his nose. He was carrying a bag, and Axl guessed that inside were cords and picks, and whatever else they needed. At their feet were their respective guitars and amps.

To his questioning, Slash shrugged, though Axl could feel the agitation radiating off him in waves. “I was just taking a piss, y’know, and when I went to flush,” Slash held up his fingers and moved them like he was pushing the handle down. “The little, like, thing got stuck–”

From the corner of the room, Steven called, “D’you get your dick stuck in your zip again?”

Slash gave a clipped, unamused laugh.

Axl sneered at the lump in the corner, “If you got jokes, get your ass up to the studio and maybe you’ll be useful for something.”

Steven gargled incomprehensibly and laughed to himself. As fast as he came, he was out cold. His sharp snores thundered in the empty room, Axl rolled his eyes and followed Slash and Izzy as they went outside.

When he set foot outside, Axl inadvertently took a deep breath. The sun was in the same place it was when the first ray of light entered his room, maybe the tiniest bit higher in the sky, and even though the direct exposure to the giant ball of fire meant sweat was sure to follow, the fresh air was more than welcome. Though he’s been awake for ten minutes for the most part, Axl felt he had just now woken up.

Izzy opened the back door of the car and pushed his case on the seat. He took Slash’s case and shoved it on the floor while Slash loaded the trunk with their amps and the bag. Axl felt his skin bloom with heat and absently mulled over leaving his jacket at home.

The wind stirred gently, and he curled his loose hair behind his ear. On the street, there were some cars still parked in their driveway and near the sidewalk. When he got to L.A, after the initial culture shock from living in Indiana to California, he was immediately familiarized with the sound of the city and no longer paid any attention to it. Axl opened the passenger door and slid inside.

The car wasn’t theirs, a close friend owed Duff a hefty favor, so roughly every other week the band used the car to get to where they needed to be. It wasn’t anything fancy or otherwise worthy of note, the dull color gave off an inconspicuous appearance with its polyester seats and out of date model. Transport wasn’t given top priority in the beginning either, and Axl was reluctant to admit that the thought slipped past him as well.

Slash opened the rear door and moved to hold the guitar case in his lap, mindful of his guitar on the floor. After a beat of silence that was broken only by Izzy lighting a cigarette, Slash nervously asked, “You think we need to call somebody?”

“No.” Axl replied. They couldn’t afford it.

Izzy handed him his lighter and didn’t wait for Axl to roll down his window before backing out of the driveway.

When they arrived at Pasha with their gear in hand, the clock face in the entrance reading nine thirty-five, an employee who introduced himself as Michael the first time they came to the studio was waiting for them by the door.

Seeing the state the three were in, he gestured at the receptionist and back at the equipment. She fleetingly punched in a few keys on the phone and moments later her tinny voice crackled over the studio speakers as she requested assistance at the front desk.

Michael turned back to them, a pinched expression etched on his face. “What happened? Where have you guys been?”

Slash sheepishly leaned forward to explain. “Traffic was backed up like, forty blocks from here, man. It was crazy.” Michael’s questioning eyes darted from Axl to Izzy, who looked like they were either ready to push past him and get to work or collapse on the floor. Slash added, “We had to park where we were and walk all the way here.”

Michael watched them for a second longer, and Axl felt his stomach tighten a bit as he dangled on the line between petulance and trepidation, then he sighed and motioned behind himself in the direction of the live rooms. Relief rolled over their shoulders, and they moved down the hall toward an unoccupied empty room.

A young-looking employee appeared from around a corner up ahead and raced to the front desk, teenage inexperience and irrational anxiety knocking his knees together. Axl distantly heard Michael’s quiet but stern voice that demanded compliance ask him to move their equipment for them.

What Slash told him wasn’t exactly a lie. They did walk to the studio, but not because of traffic. Traffic was surprisingly bearable, all things considered. Their shitty car ran out of gas beside a 7-Eleven at an intersection because someone, Axl thought vehemently, reminding himself of the argument that surfaced between he and Slash as they pushed the car into a parking spot while Izzy steered, _someone_ forgot to save enough money to afford gas to last them until the end of the week.

As Axl opened the door to a live room, the young employee rushed in after them and set the guitar cases on the ground before zipping out of the room again.

The live room was a decent size, not unnecessarily large to create unwanted reverb, but not a suffocating closet with no space to breathe in. On the wall closest to the door was a window into the control room, and there were scattered, rigid-looking chairs settled against the walls. Near the opposite end of the room was Steven’s kit, Michael allowed him to leave it there. Axl couldn’t help but think that the image of his drums looked incomplete without him sitting back there.

Slash and Izzy stood near the center of the room, tuning their guitars while they waited for their amps to be brought inside. Axl watched with some interest as Slash corrected one of Izzy’s strings, and made mental notes when they played a few chords to see if their sound was correct. A rush of strong emotion abruptly flit through Axl, bringing him the firm reassurance that this is where they were meant to be.

Axl didn’t believe in careless optimism, he didn’t rely on hope or act on blind faith. Believing really hard in something didn’t mean shit unless you worked for it. He knew, just like the band knew, that _Guns N’ Roses_ was going to leave an impact on the world, and their debut album would shake the foundation of the music industry.

The door opened again, and the kid looked as though he struggled to hold both amps in his hands. Axl turned away to conceal the mean smile on his face as Slash bounded over to help, effortlessly easing him into a conversation about music, or the weather, or something. He caught Izzy’s eye from the other side of the room, and he raised his eyebrows slightly, head tilted toward Slash and the other guy. Axl’s smile, and that fondness, grew massively as Izzy fought a smile of his own, shaking his head as he looked down at his guitar.

Shortly after they settled themselves in, Izzy and Slash exchanging experimental riffs amongst themselves while Axl smoothed out the creases in the sheets of lyrics, Larry, the chief engineer, came into the live room and greeted them in a casual, friendly way. The kid was still in the room, and was absorbed with talking to Slash, who looked like he was straining to divert his attention to both his guitar and the conversation, until he walked in. His head whipped to the door and, upon seeing Larry, he took fast, long strides to stand beside him at the door.

Axl held up the lyrics and told him he was going to record his vocal tracks. Larry nodded and motioned toward a door that blended in with the wallpaper of the room. Axl chanced a cursory glimpse at the two guitarists, Izzy had just dropped a pick and Slash was looking somewhere else. He blinked away and shoved the hidden door open.

It had revealed a smaller room, with the door taking up one side of the wall. A window covered the length of the adjacent wall, and on the other side of the window was the control room. The booth took up considerably less space than the live room. It held a mic and a wooden stool, which were positioned in the middle of the booth.

He couldn’t make out what was in the control room, but he recognized the top of the console that was up against the window. Axl put the stool in the corner, out of his way, allowing his fingertips to graze the foam padding that soundproofed the room. He moved to the mic and cleared his throat, hands rested slack at the hem of his jacket.

He’d done this before. This wasn’t his first time recording vocals, he wasn’t nervous. The familiar pull under his skin tugged at his nerves like a spoiled child insistently asking for attention. Axl waited for a while, stewing over his unwarranted tension, and when he was confident that he was alone, he began to sing to himself.

Singing came naturally to him, as natural as breathing and blinking. He found solace in the way his voice grew rough after singing for hours, the strain a physical reminder of his effort. Axl grew restless whenever he got like this, he wanted to scream and shout until he couldn’t make a sound anymore. He wanted to exert his body until he felt like he could collapse from the weight of gravity. He felt like he couldn’t work out the thrumming in his mind and the wrinkled lines of annoyance that stuck to his skin like the sweat on his back.

Axl woke up feeling like time had already slipped through his fingers, the residual remains left under his nails like dirt and dead skin, like their shot was just out of reach. He wanted to hurry and get this EP done and quickly work on their debut album before he jumped out of his skin.

The more he thought to himself, the louder and steadier his voice became. Axl became aware of this when he just barely caught sight of the door in the control room opening, and he reflexively ground his teeth together, the immediate silence in the booth big and overwhelming.

The young employee came into view, fumbling toward the console. He put on a set of headphones and greeted Axl with a self-conscious tremor in his voice, and maybe he introduced himself and mentioned he was part of a program the studio was providing. Axl tried to pay attention to what he was saying over the sharp blush that seeped under his skin. He nodded anyway, the details skimmed and waning in his mind.

While he sang through the lines, doing them the way they’d practiced and played countless times in the past, the sweltering heat that had lurked since they had to push the car into the parking lot this morning became exceedingly prominent. There wasn’t a clock that he could see from behind the mic, but he guessed almost an hour had passed since he started recording his takes.

Sweat inched down his back, Axl was uncomfortably aware of how his pants clung to his legs, making it difficult and unpleasant to move in but the more he stood still, the more unbearable staying in place became. That was his first mistake, wearing pants on a day like this. He looked down at himself and considered peeling the sticky leather off.

He had abandoned his jacket reluctantly at first, and then he quickly shucked his shirt over his head afterward, face twisting sourly as he watched himself adjust his hair back into a reasonable state through the limited reflection from the window. His hands were clammy on his skin, hair greasy from not being properly washed in days. He wore the jacket mainly for appearances sake, but the long, unexpected walk to the studio had made him sweaty, and in the enclosed recording booth the high temperature felt isolated and coated on his skin.

It was almost too hot for Axl to work. Almost. The band had been scheduled in this time for the studio though, and Axl wanted to take advantage of it as much as he could. He wiped his forehead with his arm and tried to find some comfort when sweat came off.

This would be the fourth time Axl tried these set of lyrics. He knew he could do them, he’d sang them enough times when they played the song live in clubs and other venues. Before their show at the Scream, they ran through the song during soundcheck, and it was fine. The humidity, combined with the fact neither Duff or Steven had apparently made it to the studio yet, and with the way his throat refused to cooperate, made it glaringly obvious that it would be downright impossible for any actual progress to be done on the EP today.

Larry had joined the kid in the control room earlier and was tentatively giving Axl advice and his own opinion from time to time, which Axl tried to acknowledge diplomatically but ultimately ignored. He knew what he was doing. He wasn’t about to change anything to fit what Larry thought would help the record sell.

They weren’t going to make a million copies of the EP, anyway. Keeping the production count to a low ten thousand copies, or something, gave the record more of a rare, collectors vibe. According to Niven.

Axl read over the lyrics again, glaring tiredly at the scrawled words like they brought on the insufferable mood he was in. He sighed despondently, the heavy weight on his shoulders adding fire to his frustrations.

Sean, as Larry had called him, turned aside and said something to the engineer, his expression dripping with concern and light perspiration. Axl felt a rivulet of sweat glide down the side of his face as he watched them talk to each other, unable to hear what they were saying. Larry nodded to Sean empathetically. He turned back to Axl and pressed a button on the console.

“Let’s take ten, all right?”

Axl wanted to protest, to press forward, _give me another shot, I can do it this time,_ but Larry and Sean had taken off their headphones and were once again talking amongst themselves, walking away from the window.

He had just barely managed to contain the urge to rip the papers to shreds and resign to a spot behind the building to sulk in, when a knock sounded brusquely on the door before being opened, and Axl both welcomed and resented the fact as more warm air circulated the room. Slash came inside, the shades he wore this morning resting on his head. He had his hair tied back, exposing his face and his neck to keep his skin cooled.

Axl was slightly taken aback at the sight of Slash’s defined features, which were usually always obstructed by his endless mass of curls, large sunglasses, and more frequently as of late, hats. The shorts he wore revealed long tanned legs, and it was with an embarrassed start that Axl realized he was staring, eyeing his friend’s body.

“Hey,” Slash greeted languidly. Axl nearly missed it, the image of Slash’s thighs burned behind his eyelids, but his voice was thick and it seized his attention.

Axl swiftly shoved those thoughts away. “Hi.”

Slash crossed his arms and leaned on the wall opposite of the window, not facing Axl directly. He studied the floor in front of him with a great interest. Axl swallowed an exasperated sigh, instantly annoyed with him. Slash had something he wanted to talk about, and he’d take his damn time before getting to the point, asking _how do you do?_ like they didn’t live together, like they haven’t been living together for over a year.

Slash waved a hand in the air idly, eyes flickered to the ceiling, then to Axl. “How’s this goin’?”

“Good.” He responded, willing the clench of his jaw away. “This one part is kicking my ass, though.”

Axl showed him the lyric sheet and Slash leaned toward him, and grinned after reading the song title at the top of the page. He quipped, “What, you’re still working on that?”

“Unlike some of us around here, I take this part very seriously.” Axl smirked back.

“Hey,” Slash said defensively, smile in place. “You know I can’t sing.”

“God, don’t I,” Axl comically rolled his eyes, smirk growing as Slash laughed breezily.

He leaned back against the wall again, arms loose over his chest. “Yeah, you would.”

The inflection in his voice, and the small grin on his face, made the remark sound something like a compliment, but Axl wasn’t sure how to respond to that. So, he said, “Well, I can’t just scream into the mic and be done with it, and be stubborn on not doin’ it again.”

“Why would I do it again?” Slash asked amusedly, like he did every time they had this conversation. He pressed his lips to a thin line, adopting a mockingly serious expression, though his warm, dark eyes shone with mirth. “You know, if you spend so much time agonizing over each line, this EP will come out just in time for Christmas.”

Axl felt his teasing mood dissipate, the amiable warmth in the room replaced with a smothering humidity.

Oblivious to the shift in his friend, Slash carried on, his smile returning fully. “I mean, what d’you think shows are? We can’t just _restart_ in the middle of a song ‘cos you didn’t like it.”

Axl laughed humorlessly for his benefit, the beginnings of a glare settling over his face as he looked down at the paper in his hand. The delivery of the lyrics mattered more on recording, he leveled with himself, because that was permanent. He wasn’t going to be killed for fucking up a line when they were on stage, it was different then. Axl frowned, discontent stretching his shoulders taut.

“Did you need something?” Axl made a strong effort to filter out the annoyance in his voice. He held up the sheet and waved it pointedly. “Kind of in the middle of somethin’ here.”

Slash shrugged offhandedly. His nonchalant demeanor was starting to piss Axl off, the embarrassed heat that had risen to his cheeks turned from something shy into irritation as Slash shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He looked thoughtful, concern and indecision forming over his skin like the bead of sweat that Axl wasn’t watching slide down his neck.

He put his hands on his hips, like Axl was the one testing his patience, and looked at him carefully. “Do you have anything to drink?”

The weight of the question was light but Slash’s piercing stare, brown eyes accented and highlighted brightly without any sort of barrier to soften the look, pinned him on the spot. Axl made a face at him, a confused fluttering of nerves had gathered at his throat and, under Slash’s gaze, he felt as though one wrong move would yank a string loose and unravel an incomprehensive chain of events. In no mood to argue, Axl gestured with his head to the water bottle on the floor that Sean had volunteered to get for him earlier.

Slash followed the movement, and Axl guiltily allowed himself to indulge in the curve of Slash’s neck and the hard line of his jaw before he jerked his focus back to the lyrics in his hand. His face burned, a scandalized blush coloring his pale skin.

No matter how hard he tried to think of anything to say, his mind was busy concentrated on the juxtaposition of the gentle appearance of Slash’s cheek and the sharpness of his jaw, leading to the point of his chin and just above that were soft lips that could smooth into a good-natured smile. Axl heard Slash pushing off the wall more than he saw it, he flinched at the sound and felt his flush deepen.

Jesus Christ.

All of a sudden, Slash was standing beside him, and he started to reach for his hand. Axl froze, then remembered the sheet he was holding and wordlessly handed him the paper, fighting the urge to look at him. He felt that if he even thought about looking at him, Slash would somehow know what the fuck was going on in his head. It wasn’t his fault, he just couldn’t stop _noticing_ things that he never even considered before. But if he kept acting so fucking weird over nothing, Slash would definitely know something was up. He wouldn’t outright ask him about it, but he’d be aware that something was amiss with him, and that was too much of a risk.

Axl compromised with himself by looking at the lyrics instead, the safety of music sheltering him from his own mind once again.

It took him a second to realize Slash might be unable to read his writing. Axl showed him the verse that was giving him trouble, perfunctorily circling around the cluster of words. Slash made a noise that rumbled in his throat and held the paper a little closer to his face, raising his hands as he glanced over the rest of the lyrics, and came to a stop near the bottom of the page. He shuffled closer to Axl, his squared shoulder knocking into Axl’s, and pointed at a line. Axl moved in and turned his head to read it, his arm brushing Slash’s side.

“Who wrote that?” Slash spoke easily enough, but Axl caught the small reverence in his tone.

Axl couldn’t focus, they were standing so close he could smell him without meaning to. Sweat, cheap cigarettes, cheaper whiskey, and the undeniable, alluring scent of _man_ flooded Axl’s system – he scrambled quickly to reread the lyric Slash referred to.

He recognized the words as his own, and felt a jolt of misplaced sentimentality as he remembered writing the verse huddled in on himself in a cramped bathroom at a gas station somewhere, the ink from the pen bleeding down the paper. He thought he could still smell the useless, strong disinfectant that was used in that bathroom, the acidic tang invading his nostrils and making his eyes sting.

He swallowed, tongue dry in his mouth. “Izzy.”

Slash whistled lowly. “Wow.”

Just like that, it was as if a switch in Axl’s mind had flipped by the indirect, ambiguous compliment of his lyrics. He was thrust into the present, becoming so startlingly conscious of the physical space he occupied that he felt uncomfortably disorientated from it. His limbs were rigid, his skin felt too tight on his bones, though his blood sang with satisfaction. He was careful to keep still as Slash continued to marvel over the page in his hands. The side of Axl’s body that was casually, ingenuously touching Slash felt emphasized, the brush of contact made the skin there feel important.

“He’s kind of really fucking talented, isn’t he?”

Letting out a shaking breath, Axl snatched the paper out of his hands without a second thought. “Yeah.”

Instead of moving away, Slash stayed beside him and stared into space like what he had just read tilted his world on its axis, like he would observe the known universe in a different light from now on.

Curiosity made Axl’s stomach churn. He muttered with deliberate triviality, “We wrote this back when we were in Hollywood Rose.”

“Yeah, I remember playing it a couple times.” Slash recalled slowly. The honesty in his voice twisted a rusted blade in Axl’s resolve.

He retreated to the lyrics. “Can you get outta here now?” He snapped, urgent for isolation. He felt like he was knee-deep in quicksand, floundering uselessly as he was swallowed whole. To his own ears, he sounded pathetic, but he knew his bandmates had come to identify this tone of voice as the indication of an oncoming storm that called for no survivors. He blinked harshly and his stomach sank when his eyes burned. “I’ve gotta get this done before we leave.”

Slash relaxed and nodded. “Yeah, sure thing.”

As soon as his back was turned, Axl felt like he was punched in the middle of his chest unexpectedly, strong emotions crashing and colliding together like the intense waves of the sea. Slash reached for the door handle and paused. Instantly, the waves stilled and Axl stood straight, his shoulders set stiffly.

Slash turned around, a fraction of hesitation showing in the way his fingers twitched on the doorknob. “If you, like…” He began, stopping to stare at Axl openly.

He started to speak again, though his mouth was left hanging as no sound came out. Axl waited for him to finish, the silence spreading to surround them, simmering in the heat as they watched each other.

Despite the threat of the waves boiling over, spilling across the floor and engulfing him entirely, Axl felt mortifyingly grounded. Detached, it was like he was observing the strange interaction from afar. In some distant part of his mind, he was surprised at himself for being so compliant and impassive toward the unusual behavior of his friend.

Time slowed to a stand-still, he watched as Slash’s gaze drifted from his eyes to his mouth; he subconsciously licked his lip, an impulsive reaction he had no control over. Slash looked as though he was taken by surprise, a quiet intake of breath echoed and looped insistently in Axl’s ears.

It felt like an unavoidable development. Axl’s own eyes blinked from brown eyes that watched him fervently to the soft lips from before, though now they were apart, revealing the top edge of teeth. It was involuntary, he licked his lip again, and saw Slash’s tongue in his mouth.

“Uh.”

At the sound of his voice, Axl’s vision tunneled and he stared past Slash’s eyes, choking on a sharp gasp. He clamped his teeth together, willing the strain in his throat away, and quickly fisted the paper in his hand and crossed his arms. He felt caught, and his body reacted defensively, ready to retaliate while his brain struggled to catch up.

Slash stammered, “Like. Water.”

He looked as eager to get out of the recording booth as Axl felt, a deer in the headlights caught between a rock and a speeding freight train. Slash pushed himself out of the door as he coughed, “If you need some, let me know.”

Unceremoniously, he left Axl alone in the recording room. Axl’s skin felt numb, a static noise that buzzed just below the surface, and he swallowed as he diverted his attention back to the crumpled lyrics in his hands.

The words were recognizable, at least. When he rewrote the lyrics to a cleaner page, he made a conscious effort to keep the pen strokes spaced and big, the letters clear to him. His eyes returned to the line Slash paid attention to, the line he wrote, and almost allowed the steadily climbing elation to reach its peak.

He scowled in disgust. This was stupid. These _feelings_ were fucking pointless. Who cared if Slash liked the lyrics or not? Of course they were good, Axl wrote them. He was Axl fucking _Rose_. When he wrote lyrics, they were great. They meant something, they had meaning underneath the casual language, underneath what people would expect to find – nothing was an accident.

A patch of skin along his side throbbed, a reminder.

That didn’t mean anything.

With the hard set of his shoulders and an insurmountable weight in his chest, Axl felt extremely relieved when Larry and Sean entered the control room a short time later. In Larry’s hand was a fast food burger, half-eaten in its packaging, and Sean had a small box of fries. The sight of food still invoked a feeling of unattainable want and a watered mouth which usually went ignored, but the anxiety that coiled in Axl’s body made him nauseous at the sight instead.

Sean equipped the headset and, around a mouthful, told Axl he’d start the recording again whenever he was ready. The horrifying possibility of that whole exchange with Slash existing outside of the moment it happened in plucked a chord of fear deep within him, a hollow emptiness ringing at the base of his spine.

Larry, for all his endless composure and unwavering tolerance, gave Axl a handful of attempts on the song before speaking civilly into the console’s microphone. “I think that’s enough for today.”

Axl felt dismissed with his tail between his legs, the vacancy in his body was expansive and stretched to the ends of his fingers. With his damp shirt and jacket hung on his forearm, the wrinkled paper held absently in his hand, he emerged from the recording booth and winced as blaring music reached his ears without warning. The padded walls had soundproofed the outside noise of the rest of the guys practicing their takes for the EP.

Steven caught sight of him and stopped playing to point the tip of his drum stick in his direction. Without a drumbeat, the music gradually came to a halt to see what Steven was up to.

“Axl!” Steven excitedly called out. Axl considered walking out of the studio to get some air. “Check this out!”

He hesitated. He could faintly hear Duff talking about something, but inexplicit verbal comprehension was a brain function he was incapable of right now. He didn’t have to listen to Steven, of all people, but he figured himself to be some kind of masochist as he turned toward the band. Axl purposefully avoided eye contact with anyone, walking over to the chairs on the wall nearest the drum kit.

Izzy motioned to their bassist with the plastic cup in his hand as Axl drew close. “We worked out that part in _City_ that Duff–”

“Hang on, what?” Duff interrupted. “We said it wasn’t _my fault_. Steve–”

“The thing at the end of the solo?” Axl bit impatiently. He sat down abruptly, squinting at the sound of metal screeching against the floor from the impact. He dutifully ignored how his ears prickled with heat, how it traveled down his neck, and lifted an eyebrow at Izzy questioningly, who was in the middle of drinking.

Duff spoke for him, gangly arms clutching his bass protectively. “Yeah. Anyway, listen–”

“Actually,” a voice interjected from across the room with a nervous cadence that pulled at Axl’s attention. He felt ripples of indignation and fragility ricochet off each other inside him, he felt apprehensive. He steeled himself and turned to face Slash anyway.

Their eyes met, brown ones hurriedly redirecting themselves to address their friends. Slash slapped his sunglasses on his face. “I have to go.”

Steven stood from behind his kit, a confused look on his face. “Where’re you goin’?”

The tie holding his hair back was coming loose, shorter strands of hair emerged and stood up, alleviated by the humidity. As time carried on, Slash was progressively looking as though he had stepped inside after an intense, windy day.

He fumbled with his guitar and placed it in its case, clumsy fingers missing the latches. His shades were slipping down his nose. “I have this thing,” he mumbled vaguely. “Can you take this to the house for me?”

The question was aimed at Duff, who looked fed up with being talked over. His shoulders sagged as he sighed, and said regretfully, “Sorry, I’m going home tonight.”

Slash turned to Izzy with a hopeful quirk on his lips. Izzy shook his head once. “Busy.”

“Steve…?” Even with the tinted glasses covering his eyes, Slash’s open desperation warped his face; he pleaded loudly at their drummer.

“You know, I would if I could, but I uh…” Steven sat down and rubbed the back of his neck a bit sheepishly, almost convincingly apologetic. “I’ve got some things, and...”

The little smile had wiped off his face as Steven trailed off to murmur disjointedly, the begrudging acceptance of defeat pulled his eyebrows together. Irrational dread chilled Axl’s skin, his tongue felt five sizes too big in his mouth, but he mildly narrowed his eyes as Slash reluctantly turned to face him.

An oppressive stillness blanketed the room. In between Axl and Slash, Duff sat on the platform holding the drums up and was looking over his strings with intense fascination. Izzy had left the conversation to fiddle with the dials on his amp, and Steven stared into his drums, a minor cringe on his face that grew with the tension.

“...Can you take this to the house, Ax?” He looked as unprepared as he was in the recording booth but out here, his expression was stressed in the presence of their friends.

Axl, with a creeping slowness that dawned on him all at once like the rise of the sun, had the upper hand over Slash, endless potential and outcomes laid at his feet. The fate of the band was at his fingertips, his judgement influenced and shaped the foreseeable future.

“Sure.” He replied curtly, arms crossed over his chest.

Slash opened his mouth, a response to Axl’s refusal on the tip of his tongue. “I – Oh.”

Axl watched as Slash moved to stand awkwardly, slowly like he was face-to-face with a wild animal, his thin frame much more exaggerated without a guitar in front of him or at his hands.

“Okay, thanks.” Slash said quickly as he walked toward the door, not sparing a glance back at his friends. Axl peered at the guitar case on the floor and listened to the sound of his departure, boots stomping and making wavelets of unintentional reverb that bounced off the live room walls.

The door clicked shut and silence filled the empty space Slash left behind.

“What's up with him?” Duff asked quietly, standing to look between Steven and Axl.

Axl shrugged easily, leaning back in the chair. “No idea.”

Izzy abruptly flicked on his amp, cutting off further questioning. “I’ll do his solo then, I guess.”

He tapped a beat on the body of his guitar and played a few notes, which smoothly transitioned into the chords somewhere in the middle of the song. Steven and Duff caught on and played their respective parts skillfully. Axl mentally rushed to place the lyrics to the music.

_You're sixteen and you can't get a job, you're not going very far…_

He didn't write this song, and he didn't feel the need to change anything up about the lyrics aside from how he sang them. Without Izzy playing rhythm, the song sounded relatively the same, and he could play lead pretty well. He didn't bother trying to replicate exactly how Slash played it, he played how he wanted to.

It wasn't bad, Axl reasoned with himself, trying to justify why he was predominantly aware of the single empty space beside Duff.

_When you, you gonna move to the city?_

It just felt like something was missing.

The song was obviously different without Slash’s lead guitar coasting alongside Izzy’s rhythm, Axl knew his ears searched fruitlessly for Izzy’s unmistakable rhythm sound.

Though Axl would loathe to say it aloud, Slash’s place in the band was important. The five of them were, in one way or another, meant to be together – _Guns N’ Roses_ wouldn’t be the band they are now if somebody else was lead guitar. It wouldn’t be _Guns N’ Roses_ if somebody else was singing. The collective parts each member of the band brought together was irreplaceable, Axl knew this to be fact.

They weren’t the best by any means, technically speaking. Steven had an odd way of drumming, and instead of trying to change it they worked around his style of playing. Duff was an arsenal of talents, as was Izzy, but that didn’t mean they mastered their crafts. That didn’t change a thing in Axl’s book.

Slash wasn't even all that phenomenal of a guitarist, if Axl was being honest with himself – he was a great guitar player. When he wanted to, he could tug at your heartstrings like you were the instrument he was playing all along, and he was just a kid. That was the thing about him, he was young, he was shiny and new to the big, open, ruthless world, and he played guitar like he survived through the pain and suffering of a lifetime.

_–Aw, child, ain't it a pity?_

That’s what was so impressive about him, what drew Axl to him. There was definitely something else about him, apart from the way his eyes smiled when he laughed, when he didn’t have those shades covering his face, something in the way he seemed genuinely interested and like he cared about the shit Axl had to say.

_Sometimes it gets too shitty._

He dimly registered the fact Slash’s solo was coming up, and gathered himself together to at least pretend he was paying attention.

_Come on, and hit me!_

Izzy played his solo like he’d done it millions of times before. There was a practiced simplicity in the way he stood very casually, looking down at the guitar like he was assessing its questionable potential. His arms moved as he plucked away near the neck of the guitar, fingers moving to their designated place, but the rest of him stayed mostly still. Duff was off to the side – Axl glued his eyes to the bassist and strained to listen for Duff’s bass playing amidst his own fucked up stream of consciousness.

Where Izzy looked coolly occupied by other things on his mind and was formal with his guitar, Duff was lazily animated and spontaneous. He clutched his bass and slightly swayed to the beat Steven was doling out. The solo came to an end, as did their playing, leaving Axl feeling vaguely underwhelmed.

“So?” Steven chirped as he jumped off the platform, coming to stand between Izzy and Duff.

Axl met the eyes of his three bandmates and was nonplussed to see them look expectantly at him. “What?”

“How was it?” Izzy asked, eyes sweeping the floor. Duff shifted a little, hands on his hips.

“It was… good.” He answered dubiously, and saw Duff deflate a little. “What? I mean, I never noticed you had trouble with the song before.”

He’s heard Duff sound worse under stranger circumstances and somehow manage to pull it off anyway, but he was too damn busy thinking about Slash and how the song sounded without Slash’s playing as he bobbed his head to the music or moved in place, in his own, guitar-riffed world, outside of his body and mind.

Izzy lit the cigarette in his mouth and pocketed the lighter, saying, “Just stick to the way we usually do it and it’ll be fine.”

Axl tuned them out as he hastily sat up straighter in his chair, scanning the upper walls purposefully. “What time is it?”

Steven made a show of generously checking his bare wrist and stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm… Seems it’s about half-past skin o’clock!”

Izzy scoffed, smoke escaping from the grin on his face like he was a chimney. Duff rolled his eyes while he tapped a beat on the strings of his bass with his pick, a toothy smile growing despite himself.

They stayed in the studio for a few more hours, recording individual takes and polishing up on their sound. Izzy artificially volunteered to play lead on other songs, too, with little to no complaint from the guys. Axl encouraged it, and he sat in the unexpectedly large control room and watched, intrigued as Izzy stood by himself, listening to riffs that usually came out of Slash’s guitar. It felt like someone moved all the furniture in a house a quarter of an inch to the left, or like the walls were painted the slightest shade darker.

Time carried on without Axl’s acknowledgment or permission, and soon enough Michael politely knocked and walked into the live room to let the band know it was almost closing time.

“Oh, fuck.” Duff froze in place, his mouth agape as he stared at Michael. “What time is it?”

“It’s six-forty,” Michael stated.

Steven shot up from his seat, nearly dismantling his cymbals. “What!”

Duff shrugged off his bass and searched for his case, eyeballing a suspiciously large group of cords in a heap. Steven fumbled to put his shoes on.

“What’s going on?” Axl asked as he watched Izzy push Duff’s case in his direction with his foot, kneeling to open his own case.

“I was supposed to be at Kat’s by now.” Duff noticed his case and hurried to put his bass inside.

Steven clambered from behind his kit and stood beside Axl, still holding his drum sticks. “Yeah, I have places to see, too.”

Axl shared a discomforted look with Izzy, who cleared his throat before speaking. “Actually, uh, there was a problem with the car.”

Duff’s head whipped up to catch his eye, face void of emotion. “What happened?”

“Well,” Izzy started.

“It isn’t broken, or totaled, or anything.” Axl mentioned, seeing the almost fearful look that started to develop on Duff’s face.

“Yeah, it just ran out of gas, so we left it at a 7-Eleven.”

“Where?” Duff interrogated the two of them, his face serious and unforgiving.

“In the parking lot,” Axl said.

“No shit, I mean which 7-Eleven? Where is it?” Duff frowned nervously as he looked from Izzy to Axl.

Axl’s mind blanked, he found himself paralyzed with the realization he had no fuckin’ idea where they left the car. He remembered pushing the car with Slash, the polarity of their harsh arguing and their fuming silence, but he couldn’t remember where they left the stupid fucking car.

Izzy saw his struggle, and the growing panic on Duff’s face, and said, “It’s like, five minutes from the house. It’s across the laundromat.”

Duff absorbed the information, picturing the street the laundromat was on, and nodded. He looked to his case on the floor, then blinked back up at Izzy. “Wait, how did you guys get here?”

“We walked here.” Axl answered him and saw the confusion fall from Duff’s face, replaced with some kind of awe and disbelief.

“Really? The whole way?” Duff turned to Izzy. Axl’s lip twitched, a flicker of a scowl marking his mouth.

“Yeah.” Izzy closed the latches on his case and held it firmly in his hands.

The idea of walking to a gas station, spending who knows how much for a gas can – if the station had any at all, – the gas itself, and having to carry both the can full of gas and Slash’s guitar, along with the bag of cords and their amps, to the car settled in Axl’s mind. He pressed his lips together, looking at the case on the floor where Slash left it.

“I also came in here to tell you guys,” Michael apparently hadn’t left the room, and spoke so suddenly that Axl nearly jumped from his seat. “You can leave your instruments in here, if you’d like.”

“Really?” Axl heard from Steven and Izzy, the latter looking relieved.

Michael gave Steven a somewhat weary look before continuing, speaking to the four of them. “Well, I already let you keep your drum kit in here, so.” He gave a strained smile. “Might as well let you keep your other things in here, too.”

“Thank you, man,” Steven said devotedly. He pointed at Michael, looking at Izzy and gushed, “That’s so cool, this guy is the coolest!”

“Yeah, thanks.” Izzy agreed, placing his case down on the floor.

“No problem.” Michael nodded stiffly, and closed the door.

The generosity from the employee washed over the room, they fell into a thoughtful, quiet contemplation after he left. Axl worried his lip, trying to remember if he saw or heard of potential fluctuating gas prices. He felt better about the walk home now, though. He wouldn’t have to carry Slash’s guitar and be subjected to the owner’s excessive, unnecessary examination for any damage done to the precious instrument.

“Do you think he ever, like, chills out?” Duff asked. “Or does he have that look tattooed on his face, or something?”

“He’s probably gonna trash our shit when we leave.” Steven added, looking forlornly toward his drums.

Izzy felt for the pack of smokes in his jacket pocket. “We can always sue for property damage.”

Axl gave him a wry look, “Who’re we gonna get to be our lawyer?”

Izzy gave the idea some thought, and turned to regard Steven. Duff followed his look, watching as Steven blinked in surprise.

Duff nodded sagely. “Put a suit on the guy, and he’d make a decent lawyer.”

“I’m pretty sure the shit in my just kitchen would get me arrested in, like, twelve countries.”

“That’s your secret,” Izzy murmured conspiratorially around a cigarette. “You’re the most kick-ass lawyer in the firm, but you’re elbow deep in government conspiracies.” Izzy blew smoke upward, squinting as it formed a grey cloud overhead.

They continued talking as they migrated outside, adding more and more backstory to Steven’s double life when he isn’t a law-abiding, respectful citizen of the great country of the United States of America.

“I have no idea what we’re talking about anymore,” Steven announced in the middle of Axl’s tangent as the entrance to the studio shut behind them.

“That’s normal,” Izzy shrugged.

If it were anyone else, at any other time, Axl would have gotten angry and stormed off, but he was in a good mood. The sun had almost complete its descent, the shadows of the buildings across the street painted on the pavement. A welcoming, cooling late evening breeze greeted him as they had walked out of the studio, and Axl felt the atmosphere of Hollywood’s nightlife easing itself awake. He felt eager to walk back home, a satisfied smile on his face.

“All right, well, I’ll see you guys later.” Duff turned to walk away, when he froze in place. “Oh! Shit, wait.”

He turned back around and weaseled his hands in his pockets. “Do you guys have change?”

Axl gave him a look, his smile tinged with slight confusion. “What do you need change for?”

“I need to call Kat and let her know I’m gonna be late.”

Axl checked his pockets and came up empty – “Fuck, I left my jacket inside.” He shrugged apologetically. “I dunno if I have anything, though.”

Duff shifted attention to Izzy and Steven, who also came up empty. He sighed and looked into the street, Axl felt a little bad for leaving Duff stranded like this. There was a smaller, hidden part of him that swelled and chuckled ominously, _maybe if you saved your money…_

Duff shoved his hands in his empty pockets. “Yeah, that’s fine. Maybe I’ll see somebody.”

“Who knows,” Steven agreed solemnly. He perked up immediately and jumped toward him, “Hey, actually, I’ll walk with you!”

“Don’t you have places to be?” Duff asked, though he grinned and looked less distraught.

“Well, yeah, but maybe I’ll see someone, too.” Steven waggled his eyebrows at him.

Axl glanced inside Pasha and saw the receptionist standing up from her desk, the hallway shuttering into darkness. “Yeah, I’ll see you guys later, I gotta go.”

He pushed open the glass door and approached the front desk before she could walk around it. The receptionist was looking down, rearranging some paperwork, and began to inform him that they were closed before she looked up and recognized him.

“Did you need anything?” She asked politely, looking him at him directly. Her eyes were some kind of blue-hazel color, and her light hair fell to her shoulders.

“Yeah, I forgot my jacket. Did you lock the doors?”

She looked down the hall and pursed her lips. “They should still be open…”

Axl moved down the hall and checked the door. It was, in fact, open. The lights were off, and though he’s been in the live room enough times to maneuver around it, the darkness obscured most of the items in the room. He walked carefully, not wanting to trip over guitar cases or jam his foot into an amp, or something. He walked close to the wall, and as his eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting he could spot the row of chairs he previously sat on.

Without warning his shin met with the dulled metal edge of the seat of the chair. Ignoring the pulsing in his leg, he found his jacket immediately and brought it close to his face. He rifled through the pockets and found the folded lyrics, and nothing else.

No money.

He grimaced. “Shit.”

Axl made no effort to hide his slight limp as he walked out of the live room. He walked past the front desk and pulled the studio door open. Unlike before, he noticed the groups of people that roamed the streets of Melrose Avenue. He didn’t have to look hard to find Izzy smoking against a nearby power pole.

Izzy tossed the cigarette smoked to the filter on the ground and stepped on it, walking quickly between anyone who got in his way to Axl’s side. “What happened?”

Axl figured the distress was plain on his face – from the stupid ache in his leg to the emptiness of his pockets. As soon as Izzy was close enough, they started to walk home together. “I’ve got no money on me.”

“That’s fine, Steve’s with him,” Izzy frowned inquisitively at his friend.

He shook his head, putting on his jacket. “We can’t buy gas.”

Realization dawned on Izzy’s face, he patted down his jacket and pants pockets again. “Shit.”

They walked in a comfortable silence for a while, the passing conversations all around them providing enough background stimulation as they mulled over their situation carefully. Axl was fine with leaving the car in the parking lot, Duff’s friend didn’t have to know about this. Axl could easily get the money together for gas tomorrow, it wasn’t like they had anything really planned for the next couple of days anyway.

There was a show on Saturday, at Whisky a Go Go. Since they were mostly busy working on the EP, and their debut album, their live shows tended to be clumped together with a few days in between, or spaced out to the point where they sometimes went a whole month without playing. Even though they had just played last Friday, Axl felt the itch under his skin to sing to a crowd again.

“Are there any laws against leaving a car in a parking lot?” Axl asked in the middle of their quietude as they passed a large park.

They were near a neighborhood area, leaving behind the flashy lights on Melrose and walking alongside residential homes. Traffic was scarce on this road, but Axl could still hear the engines rumble on the pavement and in the air.

Izzy shrugged beside him. They were walking so close together that Axl didn't have to look at him to see his response, he felt it on his arm as he shrugged. The sidewalk was practically nonexistent, meaning they walked pretty close together. It didn't bother Axl, and if it bothered Izzy he didn't say anything about it.

Truthfully, the familiar presence at his side comforted him. Izzy’s been his best friend through it all since high school, he's stuck with him for so long it felt like they grew up together. Sometimes Axl forgot they didn't grow up together. Walking beside him in California felt as natural as it did in Indiana.

Axl frowned at himself. Lafayette wasn’t home anymore, if it was ever home at all. What was the difference between a house and a home, anyway? He didn't live in the middle of nowhere anymore, he lived here, in L.A, with Slash.

Sweat trailing down expansive skin, a throaty chuckle warming his ear, the pinprick awareness of heat from bare skin near skin; the tip of Axl’s shoe caught on an uneven patch of cement that was just a little bit higher than the previous one, and he almost tripped forward. He blindly reached for something to hold onto, and caught Izzy’s arm.

Izzy reacted reflexively, reaching to grab Axl’s other arm before he twisted them both to the ground. The firm grip on his wrist was just as sudden as his shoe catching on the ground, and Axl felt his heart stutter in his body. When both feet were planted resolutely on the ground, he quickly jerked out of Izzy’s hold.

He swept over his clothes like he actually fell to the ground, ignoring Izzy’s questioning gaze.

“You good?”

Axl nodded at his feet. He wiped his hands on his thighs again, just to make sure. “Yeah.”

Luckily, Izzy didn't push it. He just looked at him for a second longer before continuing their silent walk back home.

Axl had felt scrutinized by everyone when Slash left the studio earlier, and as the day went on the feeling gradually left his mind. Although Izzy wasn't the type to poke and prod at an issue, Axl knew the gears in Izzy’s head were working on overtime.

The sun was obscured by the trees from the park, and as they reached the end of it the sun was hiding again behind some more buildings, setting lower as the sky glowed yellows and oranges in celebration, darker, cooler colors approaching on the opposite side of the sky.

Third Street came into view. Without a car in sight, the duo turned right and kept walking.

Axl convinced himself that he was acting perfectly normal, that the warmth on his skin was from wearing his jacket. Now, as they faced the setting sun head on, it would make sense that he felt a little hotter under the collar.

Izzy had been giving him side looks since he nearly fell, Axl could tell. He's spent long enough by his side to recognize when Izzy was trying to work something out without having all the pieces to the puzzle, a confused squint in his eyes. Earlier, he handed Axl a smoke and his lighter wordlessly. Axl couldn’t tell what brand this was, but he didn’t like it. He wasn’t about to complain about the distraction, though.

The cigarette gave him something to do, something else to focus on outside of the messed-up shit he was back into thinking.

How long had it been since he last thought of what happened in the recording room? Probably since Slash left the studio. He left the studio without warning and without an explanation, and it looked as though Axl was the last person to talk to him privately. It was obvious to Axl, and hopefully not the rest of the guys, that he was bothered by something as soon as he walked out of the booth.

Standing so close to Izzy became a problem, Axl felt increasingly agitated as he felt their arms occasionally brush against each other as they walked, and he discreetly tried to put as much distance between the two of them since the horrible spiral of his thoughts started again.

“So,” Izzy drawled unexpectedly, cigarette between two fingers.

Slash could talk with his cig in his mouth, and it wouldn’t fall out.

“What?” Axl wasn't sure if he imagined the defensive tone in his own voice, but Izzy didn't react to it, so it was probably fine.

Izzy tendered to underreact to many things, though.

Axl dreaded the next words that came out of his mouth.

“What the fuck was that?”

Axl turned to face him, his own cigarette in his hand, deceptively calm and looking as though he taken aback by his question. Thunderous alarm bells were alerting Axl that this situation was probably the worst thing to happen to him in a long time. He raised his eyebrow slightly as Izzy took a drag from his smoke, looking straight ahead.

“What?” Axl repeated, morbidly curious despite the gradual sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Why’d Slash leave so early?”

It was Axl’s turn to look away. He swiftly inhaled from the filter. “I dunno.”

Izzy exhaled, “Do you?”

“No!” Axl regretted the level of his voice before he even opened his mouth.

That got the point across, though, and Izzy just shrugged and flicked the ash off his cig. Axl ignored how his fingers were lightly trembling as he brought his hand to his mouth. There was a family in their lawn up ahead, children running barefoot in their green yard, Mom and Dad watching from the little porch with big, loving smiles on their faces.

Axl hated every second of it.

Until they got closer to the 7-Eleven, that was all Izzy had to say about the subject. Axl was waiting for a door to open beneath his feet, to be questioned some more about how he can't stop thinking about what Slash is doing right now, why he chose to run away instead of talking to him about whatever the fuck happened those hours ago.

As they were more than halfway to their destination, Axl recognizing the houses and trees from sitting in the passenger seat, Izzy spoke up.

“You don’t know where he went.” He said it with deliberate vacancy, an empty statement that was neither an accusation or a question.

Axl sighed, willing away the gratuitous irritation by tossing his spent filter to the ground. “No, why would I know that?” He tried not to sound exceedingly antagonized.

Izzy suddenly bumped his elbow into Axl’s upper arm. “He likes you best.”

Axl whirled on him, eyes wide, pulse stopped. “What–”

There was a sly, lazy grin on his face, trapped between his lips was his dying cigarette. He was looking ahead and likely didn't see Axl’s reaction. Izzy was joking.

He was trained on a point in the distance, not really seeing anything before focusing on something. Izzy nudged him with his elbow again, though Axl was still watching him with an incredulous expression on his face, and pointed forward.

“Look, there it is!”

Sure enough, Izzy spotted the fluorescent lighting of the convenience store from quite a distance away. Now the sun was hidden from sight from where it fell into the ocean, disappearing on the horizon, leaving a blank slate for the moon to fill as it rose.

Axl knew the dark sky above wasn't completely empty, that it glowed from the neon street signs on the Strip, which felt years away from the neighborhood the two boys walked through. As he looked up to consider this, Axl couldn't deny that it had felt just as lonely anyway.

After crossing the street, and giving a nasty look to a driver who honked their horn as they past, they walked into the parking lot of the cruddy 7-Eleven. Axl approached the car he was increasingly familiar with and scanned the vehicle for any damage whatsoever.

Funnily, or suspiciously enough, there didn’t look like there was a single dent on the car.

Axl felt relieved, he didn’t have to feel responsible for leaving the borrowed car out here for the entire day. He peeked into the window, cupping his hands beside his eyes to see better inside, and didn’t find anything stolen or jostled around.

“The verdict?” Izzy asked lackadaisically as he leaned against the car.

Axl sighed, relieved, turning to lean against the car too. “We’re good.”

It didn’t look like there was a ticket on the windshield, either, so that was less money to worry about spending. Until they had some sort of material out, Axl couldn’t make himself feel comfortable with the reckless spending they indulged in at the beginning. He didn’t want to end up back in a shitty situation, he didn't want to go to sleep every night knowing he'd be broke the next sunrise. He wanted to be smart about how the band spent their money.

If that meant he held a little more money to himself and didn’t let anyone take any for stupid reasons, then that wasn’t his problem.

He finally felt like he could relax, even though he had to walk another ten or so minutes to get to the house. Axl didn’t let himself think about whether or not Duff or Steven locked up after they left. For now, he tipped his head back and watched the endless black sky, tuning out the noise of vehicles driving by and people all around him.

Izzy shifted a little, and the unmistakable flick of a lighter sounded.

Axl pushed any and all questions out of his mind, staring determinedly at the darkness, and tried to imagine it enveloping him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (psst you can find me on [tumblr](https://hospitalbells.tumblr.com/) too)


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